


The Marvel Mash ( One-Shots )

by Nishloo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 07:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16530311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nishloo/pseuds/Nishloo
Summary: So basically here is a collection of the little solos and drabbles that I make for characters in Marvel. They're not that long in all honesty, and are written from muse spikes.( not gonna lie, a huge majority of them are for peter maximoff )





	1. Warren Worthington III ( Aftermath of Apocalypse )

He was alone. 

Completely and utterly alone — only left with the flickering of light and flame around him, the occasional crackle and pop as the heat of the flames grew close, dusting against his bloody and bruised body. 

He couldn't feel.  
All he ( could ) feel was the pain — mental , emotional , physical.  
He couldn't process what had happened — was he dead ? He wishes he was dead, he wouldn't be left alone with his flames of thought. He felt betrayed — forgotten, how could they leave him in the rubble and fires of war ? Was he so insignificant that no one dared to scavenge through the rubble his body was laying within, lower body covered with metal wreckage while his upper half was left to the tender touches of heat.  
Could he feel anything physical? He knew his back hurt — a lot, especially the middle of his back, it was as if something was tucked under him. 

His allies disappeared, their whereabouts and condition unknown to him — he was gone for most of their struggles against their enemy, too busy being covered by ash and flames. His enemies — had they killed his allies? No, they weren't like that — he didn't know them personally but he knew that they wouldn't kill unless forced to. Like they had with him — they planned on his death in the crash, unfortunate to them he had survived. Or was it more unfortunate for him that he lived? If he were deceased, he wouldn't have to deal with the throbbing pain in his back or the gentle lick of flames that grew closer and closer to him. Maybe they would take him away, although they felt more like a breeze than the destruction they symbolized. 

Maybe they would sooth the pain in his back — oh, the pain in his ( wings ). They were what were bothering him so clearly — man did they hurt like a bitch. It felt worse than they did when the one was broken and charred from the electric caging he was thrown into — this felt so much worse. If he turned his head, he could barely make out the charring feathers and tissue on his left wing, blood soaking the mush that used to be the gentle touch of wings. They were metal no longer — then he must have lost, the aging mutant who recruited him must have failed his chance at immortality. What a shame — he was hoping to savor the smooth way he flew with such gorgeous metal wings. The mushy mess of tissue and ashen feathers that lay underneath and beside him brought a sick feeling — hate , sadness , depression , fury. 

He felt so _useless_ so _insignificant_ , like a fool — a foolish, foolish boy who thought he would get more out of life than the disappointment and disgust from his parents , the pain and suffering from being pitted against to others like him in some sick electrical cage. Boy, was he wrong — such an idiot. 

The rise of acid and bile growing in his throat brought tears to his eyes, stinging him everywhere. He was so insolent — so unneeded. That was proven when not a soul , on either side , decided to see if he was living or truly deceased — like he desired. But no, he was left broken on the battlefield among the wreckage of a plane he wasn't quick enough to get out of , wasn't smart enough to control , wasn't strong enough to break free from. He couldn't do ( anything ) to help himself or the others. 

His tears stung his eyes, and the steady breathing he had moments before have turned into half-hazard breathing, chest pounding up and down as he struggles to catch his breath — his tears were falling from his eyes, streaking down dusted and bloodied cheeks.  
Every time his chest would move in the sudden seizure for breath , the pain in his back would grow tenfold , the pains in his wings numbing — freezing him. 

He was alone.  
A sob tears through his throat, his tears running freely down his cheeks — he doesn't want to die , he doesn't want to be alone.  
But that's what he was ; alone.

A lonely fallen Angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoa my feather boy


	2. Peter Maximoff/Scott Summers ( Unrequited )

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everything's gotta be about speed with you, huh?
> 
> For a guy who brags about being so damn speedy, you sure are slow."

Scott had been his first kiss, the first time committing himself to another's lips and they belonged to Scott Summers.  
Except Scott didn't know.  
It was pathetic really, _harassment_ in all honesty. 

He kissed him when he was asleep — it was quick, fast, too fast for him to properly savor and yet Peter found himself cradled against the window with fingers pressed to his lips as he desperately tried to remember the others taste.  
It was dumb, just a spur of the moment and nobody knew because of Peter's speed — maybe except for the professor, but he _promised_ not to listen in on Peter's thoughts anymore. 

Ever since then Peter couldn't get Scott out of his mind. He was plagued by him, laser eyes searing straight through Peter and to his quickly beating heart.  
Oh god Peter wanted him _so_ bad, so so bad. He _needed_ him, needed him to acknowledge Peter, acknowledge who he was, not just knowing him as the cocky mouthed Maximoff who never had time to stop being an asshole.  
He wanted Scott to know so badly. 

But he didn't. 

— — — 

Peter was sure Jean was the same as him, when it came to his emotions about Scott. He could see it in her- her- her _everything_.  
The way she presented herself around Scott was different than how she did around others. She would bite her lip, twirl her hair, giggle and keep her eyes playful and coy. Peter noticed everything about her, noticed how she treated Scott so kindly ( like how she would run her hands through his chocolate hair underneath the willow tree in the yard or how she would interlace their fingers together as they strolled through the yards of the school ). 

Peter knew — he knew so well, and he did nothing — he stayed away.  
He stayed far far away from Jean and Scott.  
Why? She could see into his head if she wanted to. She could see how much he cared for Scott, how much he wanted to feel the gentle feather-light touch of his lips, to run his own hands through his silk hair, to run his hands over the others arms and chest — to just have Scott treat him like he treated her. 

Peter didn't want her to know, she would see things different, might _do_ something about his thoughts and he didn't want that. 

So he stayed away, stayed distant. 

— — — 

He stayed distant from everyone — it was an accident really, he hadn't meant to place himself far from everyone.  
He would stop going to training sessions with Raven, would stop going to appointments scheduled by Hank to check on Peters once injured leg, would stop meeting with Ororo and Jubilee for lunch, would stop showing up at late times of night in the kitchen to share a coffee with his father — who still had no idea of Peter's origin ( despite Raven and Ororo's persistence ). 

He had only found out when Charles grounded him — literally _grounded_ him.  
He had spent too much time outside of the school, too much time running around the world, too much time stealing from shops and stores for meaningless objects.  
So Charles grounded him. 

Scott and Jean were there when he left, in the sitting area together, laughing together. Peter could feel his body physically react to the sight, his legs grew weak, his head grew light, and his chest squeezed and threatened to pop his beating heart. 

And then Scott looked at him and _ohmygod_ Peter was rooted to the spot with the most idiot expression on his face.  
Scott stood up and approached him, and before he could say anything- 

"I love you." 

Peter's words were sputtered, lacking of confidence, lacking of any thoughts and Scott reacted — reacted with confusion. 

And Peter shoved him, Scott confused as hell shoved back ( still not knowing exactly what Peter said since he spoke to fast ) and someone threw a punch and soon they were brawling on the hardwood of the sitting area with excited students surrounding them as they did. 

And then Erik was there- Raven behind him and Jean pulled Scott up to his feet and he looked at Peter with so much anger and Peter ran. 

He was grounded. 

He ran to his room, shut the door and pushed all furniture he could against the entrance. 

He cradled himself against his window and he lifts his fingers to his lips. His bottom lip was busted and blood trickled its way down his cheek, and stained his finger when he touched it. 

He could no longer feel Scott's lips.  
He could feel his fist. 

— — —

His arms were around her waist and Peter hated it, Scotts head was resting on her shoulder and he presses a tender kiss to her neck which makes her giggle, bite her lip, and give him _the_ look. 

They leave the room, Peter bites his lip until he opens it — again.  
He moves and soon he's at the fridge, digging as far back as he can until he retrieves his father's hidden bottle of whiskey. 

He goes to his room and drowns himself with it.  
He runs that night, runs and moves until he couldn't move anymore. 

He awoke in an alley of a busy street next to a sleeping body that he couldn't recognize. His body hurt and he would later find bruises of intimacy littering his body. 

He hated himself for that, he had to wear turtlenecks until they disappeared from his pale skin. 

Jean had matching marks. So did Scott. 

— — —

Peter threw himself in front of a truck. 

He was _so_ close, so lose that he could feel the warmth of the engine radiating from the metal of the truck, could feel the cloth of his shirt flit across the front of the truck before he stepped away and watched it barrel down the road. 

His heart pounded loudly in his chest.  
He laughs and he races the truck. 

— — — 

He sees him under the willow tree again.  
His heart does the little flippy thing it does whenever he sees Scott. 

His throats is dry and he straightens himself before walking, feet moving from pavement to grass as he moves towards Scott. 

He was going to tell him, going to say what had been plaguing his mind, body, and soul for so long. 

He loves Scott, that's it, he needs to tell him.  
Maybe Scott will be surprised, his lips will form that infamous smile of his and his eyes will shine under his glasses and he'll throw his arms around Peter and tell him how he's been waiting for Peter to say something and he'll pull away, look at Peter and he'll feel the others lips again instead of the trail of blisters that Peter left along his lips after chewing on them so much. 

His heart beats faster, Scott looks up. He smiles that infamous smile and Peter opens his mouth- 

Jean hurries by him, her hair brushing his shoulder as she goes straight to Scott who throws his arms around her, who holds her so close and who-who- 

He kisses her and Peter chokes down a sob. 

He was too late — he's been too late for too long. 

He turns on his heel, holds his head high as if nothing happened with tears rushing down his cheeks and runs- no, walks away with Jean and Scott's laughter bubbling behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love them sm


	3. Peter Maximoff/Scott Summers ( Loved )

Peter has to tell Scott that he's important, that he's acknowledged, that he's known and loved. He had to tell Scott that he _matters_ and that hurts more than anything. 

It's the bouts of depression that rocks hard against Scott, that tumbles over him, that swallows him whole and leaves him as a husk -- that's what forces Peter to tell Scott. 

The appearance of his power throwing his life haywire, not being able to look at someone without the help of specialized glasses, the death of brother-- all of it, all of it had to stack against him.   
Fragile like a house of cards ready to fall in at a moments notice. 

Peter wonders how many times Scott had to put the house back together -- how much patience he has left, the ability to live. 

Peter wonders. 

He wonders where he is and now he's strolling from the kitchen, overly sweet candy cake in his hand. Feet shuffle over flooring of the school and he sees his friends. 

They sit around one another inside, smiles of their face as they laugh at something Kurt said only there was one problem, Scott was nowhere to be found. 

Peter would have thought nothing of it, if it weren't for that nagging tug at the back of his mind, the image of a scattered deck of cards. One moment he's standing in the doorway of the sitting room and the next he's scanning every inch of the building. 

He goes to Scott's room first — filled with his belongings and Peter has to smile, there on the bed was Peter's metallic silver jacket. The one that Scott had 'stolen' from him, the one that he had worn around the school with no issue, flaunting. 

There are bandages beside it, gauze wrapping that we're singed and stained with blood. 

His heart drops.   
He searches the room and bathroom and then he's off again. 

He looks in every room of the school, every classroom in the split of a second, every bedroom in case Scott was with someone else and yet Peter could find nothing of him. 

He was panicking at this point but he couldn't show it, couldn't show it in case someone stopped him -- or Charles in that case.   
He didn't need him picking through his mind, finding everything about him, about Scott and his fragile house of cards. 

And yet he can't keep himself still and he's out of the building in a flash, tearing through the buildings around it that belong to the school, speeding through training grounds and fields. 

Why was he so worried? Scott was probably fine, and yet his heart picked up in tempo with his speed. 

And there he was and everything was okay. 

He stood under a tree, hands tucked in the pockets of a large brown jacket, head held low as he used the tree as support. 

Peter stopped. 

"Scott-" 

Barely a word could be spoken before Scott's snarl reaches him as he ships around on Peter. 

"Go the fuck away!" 

Peter sucks in a breath, sharp, puncturing, shocking.

The house of cards has crumbled. 

He could tell — Scott's hands were now in fists outside of the pockets, shaking and tending, his shoulders were squared in tension, his brow was pinched together and his lips trembled. 

Peter didn't 'go the fuck away' — instead he moves closer, such a blank expression on his face. 

"Scott." 

He tries again, his voice was softer, quieter, not his usual cocky attitude that he used around Scott just to piss him off. 

He's done that so many times – said something so obviously patronizing with such a cocky attitude that would result in Scott's anger of some sort of come back and then Peter would laugh, collect Scott's face in his hands and press a kiss to his perfect lips. 

He couldn't do that now — Scott looked ready to explode, his body was shivering in cold shakes and he takes a step back when Peter moves closer, but he doesn't leave.

His lips tremble. Peter takes another step. Scott freezes, then everything comes rushing at once. 

He's rushing on Peter, fist raised and he hits Peter, hits his jaw and then Peter has his arms around him.

Scott screams bloody murder, every curse words rushed out in choked sobs and shaking fits. 

And Peter understands.   
He's gone to Scott so many times with his issues, with his emotional buildup and tension but Scott never truly opened up, never truly laid himself out for Peter to see. 

Peter wonders if it's because Scott doesn't want anyone to know he can be vulnerable, can need help at times. 

And now was a perfect example of it — his body was reacting, his mind was reacting and he didn't know what to do. 

"I'm here." 

Peter's voice is shaking as well, his fingers begin to shake and he runs them through Scott's hair and down his back. He presses a kiss to his head. Scott begins to relax and his body sags. 

The two sit under the tree for a long time, their backs resting against it as silence envelops them. 

Peter doesn't want to push anything, doesn't want to force Scott to say anything that he doesn't want to, doesn't want to make him close up within his shell.   
He was curious as hell but he let it go. 

"You matter to me, you know? You're important to me." 

Peter finally says, his hand holding Scott's with his thumb bending rubbing the back of the others hand. 

Scott scoffs, shifts where he's sitting.

"You're such a fucking sap." 

And Peter smiles because there he is, there's the Scott that he knew so well. 

And in that moment they move a little closer, smile, and watch the breeze move the grasses of the plains. 

Scott has patience, Peter knows that. He wonders if Scott wants help rebuilding his house of fallen cards.


	4. Peter Maximoff ( Awake )

Peter stays up at night. 

ping ping ping – of his games echo from his room when the moon is creeping into the sky, a blanket of the darkest blue lifting into the skies, dots of beautiful light revealing themselves in such a murky blue ocean amidst the bright light of the moon.   
Joysticks are a constant break within the Maximoff's room, twisting and curving them and jamming buttons with such a quick force that Peter doesn't realize until the controller is in shambles, broken and useless in his palms. 

At such a late time, he stares at the controller and the cracks that snake from the buttons and joystick, snaking around the entirety of itself. One more touch and if was like the whole thing could break apart, could completely snap and reveal its twists and turns of it's mind inside, the weariness of wires and circuits that were fried for so long.   
So he steals another, and another, and now there's a pile of them in the corner of his room, sighing with relief as they're released from his shaking hands. They vibrate in time with his beating heart, pattering so fast that he's lightheaded. 

He fills himself with food, a void that measly cakes and snacks can be thrown into. They give him a temporary rush and then he's back at square one — pacing, shaking, crying. 

He thinks of his family sometimes, of his mother and sisters. He thinks of the run down mat and carpets that snakes through his home, burns that his mother will never be able to get from them, burns that had long since put his mother into a drowning session of alcohol. He would appear into moments of finding his mother passed out in the kitchen, broken glass of a bottle of some kind of alcohol Peter didn't like the smell of and he would rush her to her room. He would stay with, by her bedside with a tapping foot as he waits with held breath to watch her breathe, to watch her move in her sleep, to make sure she _alive_ each time she woke up from her drunken stupor.   
He did this, he would tell himself each time. _He_ forced her into such a state of having to drink herself to death to avoid dealing with her mutant son who stole, who didn't bother to socialize himself properly with others. He was just so damn cocky, he would get into too many fights with kids around his block and each time his mother would have to deal with the aftermath of his stupid mistakes.   
His mothers drunken tendencies and disappointment is something that keeps him up at night. 

He thinks that maybe things would have been better if his father was there — and then he remembers everything. His father, not a man who was truly meant to be a father was he?   
They could never have a true family, his father has too much in his time of trying to liberate his fellow mutants. He could not have a family and yet, he did. He has a wife and a small mutant daughter and Peter feels betrayed, Erik had a family without him.   
And just as quickly as Erik had it, it was ripped from him and _oh_ _god_ it did not make it easier for Peter to approach him. To approach such a broken man who woke himself from fits of nightmares filled with death, pain, destruction — to roam halls with such an empty stare, such a sunken feelings in his chest, bones aching, just _sad_. And Peter would be gone.

Erik didn't want a family again, and it's the fear of Peters that tells him this. It wraps around him secure as a blanket only to strangle him completely, to leave him weeping and shaking in a pool of frozen tears, curled so far into himself that he feels like a child again. It cackles at him, tells him how truly worthless he is, how Erik would never want a son like him — a son who stole, who made fun, who was cocky to all, who was so damn useless and pathetic to the greatness of his father, who could never live up to the dear image of Nina who Erik always had with him.   
Peter wasn't what he wanted, he was sure of it, so he kept his mouth shut, kept his hand held by the massive black of fear that would call to him ever so softly.   
Erik's disappointment and anger is something that keeps him up at night. 

He turns over on his bed, sometimes he thinks of his friends. He thinks about how easy he had it compared to them. He had a perfect life, fatherless and drunken mother be damned, he had the closest thing to perfect when he thinks of his friends.   
Jean was so far gone within her mind, no way to control the gift she had and he knew she was haunted by it. He knew that she cried about it, that she had many sleepless nights. She was like Charles, she bore not only her pain but others as well. Sometimes he would wake to hear her screaming and he knew that her nightmares plagued her as well as the others, students dreams and nightmares pushing and shoving to break through such a fragile mind, tearing her to shreds and leaving her broken and awake, screaming and crying hysterically until someone could get to her.   
Kurt was always alone, he wasn't a true person to associate easily with others. He was social unless he was with his friends who had socialized themselves to him. He was timid, fragile — he was scared, afraid. He grew up in a carnival for those to stare and laugh at him and as soon as he made it out of there he was put into yet another cage. The boy lived his life with others laughing at him, poking at him, egging him on to fight others like him that didn't deserve it. Kurt was a broken souls that was always kind, always sure that others were happy — Peter can believe that Kurt is not happy, not so fine and carefree as he puts on.   
Ororo had lived an independent life, one where she grew up with street sense and smart. She stole but not like Peter, she stole to _survive_ , to feed herself and others. She did not steal for pleasure and fun like Peter, and he feels shame for that. She had to be tough because if she wasn't then she would have been cast to the side and stomped on so much that would have been a broken echo of who she should have been. She's strong, she's tough, and yet she's so considerate. She's trying to make up for her betrayal of becoming a horseman, and will forever do so until the cavity of self hatred fills up with others forgiveness.   
And Scott — finding his powers so quickly and suddenly, that threw his normal life into complete disarray and madness so quickly. And then to lose a brother, his best friend and only person that was like him and that could help him, gone in an instant. He blames Peter, blames him for Alex's death because "why couldn't he be fast enough to save him, why save everyone else but not his brother – he was so damn useless"   
Peter knows that — Alex's death is something that keeps him up at night. 

If only he _had_ been quicker, had snagged Alex from approaching flames so that he could live and walk beside his hurting and broken brother. Sometimes he wants Scott to just shoot him, to let lasers fly and kill Peter so that they can be even. 

And so Peter finds himself awake at night, sitting with crushed controllers, fried game systems, trash of different foods, and that familiar blanket of fear and anger that wraps itself around him with the tender touches like a mother. Head in his hands, body shaking, tears seeping through the floorboards, it's just all so much— why was he so damn pathetic?

Yet another night where Peter does not sleep.


End file.
